


Begin Again

by IntoTheRiverStyx



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23598298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntoTheRiverStyx/pseuds/IntoTheRiverStyx
Summary: Against all odds, Mordred finds he isn't alone in this life. He wants to reconnect, to connect at all, and it turns out he's not the only one who's been so horribly alone in this strange new world.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	Begin Again

Mordred was waiting in line for coffee when he saw him. He stared longer than he knew was appropriate, longer than anyone would have been comfortable with being stared at, but the man in question seemed not to notice he was being stared at. Rather, he was so absorbed in the pile of books and notebooks spread out in front of him that it seemed he hardly registered the rest of the world at all.

Mordred nearly missed the person in front of him departing the register.

“Uh,” Mordred stammered, stealing one last look before ordering, “I'll take an iced coffee and, uh, one of whatever he's drinking,” Mordred indicated the man he'd been staring at.”

The cashier blinked a few times, tilted their head, and rang Mordred up without another word.

“Can I get your name?” the cashier asked.

“Call me Mo,” Mordred was not about to give his name to anyone.

The cashier nodded, indicated where Mordred could slide his card, and did not hand him a receipt.

Mordred did his best not to fidget while he waited for his order, his own drink so ice cold in comparison to the piping hot drink he was about to give to the man he could have spent the better part of an hour staring at and still not been sure he'd managed to put the right name to the general affect.

“Uh,” Mordred felt words to be anything but his ally for the second time since he entered the godforsaken coffee shop, “you looked like your drink was running low.” Mordred placed the drink on the table, far enough away it wasn't going to get easily bumped or spilled but close enough ti could be grabbed without much effort.

“Hmn?” the man looked up, still so focused on whatever he was working on that it took him a few moments to register that anything had been said at all. Mordred used those moments to finally, finally get a good look at his face.

“It is you,” Mordred breathed, “It's really, actually you.”

“I -” the man dropped his pen, “What are you doing here?”

“Well,” Mordred laughed, “I came in just trying to get coffee.”

“It's,” the man stood up and grabbed Mordred by the face, “you're real.”

“As real as you are,” Mordred held his breath.

“What are you doing with the next several hours of your life?” the man asked as he let go of Mordred's face and started packing his books.

“Whatever you're about to suggest I do with it,” Mordred laughed.

“Good,” the man smiled, shoving his books in his backpack without ceremony, “did you drive?”

“Walked,” Mordred told him, “I live close.”

“We can go to yours.”

And it was decided just like that how Mordred was spending the next several hours of his life.

–

They walked in silence, awe and apprehension fighting for dominance in both their minds. It wasn't until they were both in Mordred's flat and Mordred had locked the door behind him that Mordred dared say the other man's name.

“Galahad,” Mordred felt the name weigh on his tongue, on his soul.

“Mordred,” Galahad replied, “You're here?”

“You're here,” Mordred echoed, “We're both here.”

“You live three fucking blocks from the coffee shop I go to every day,” Galahad did nothing to hide his shock, “How have we not seen each other before?

They both put their coffees down on a small table Mordred usually used to hold mail that needed to be sorted.

“I normally work on the other side of town,” Mordred said, “I took the day off on a whim.”

“Christ,” Galahad put his bag down by the door, not taking his eyes off Mordred, “How long have you been living here?”

“Three months?” Mordred hadn't kept track, so he estimated, “What about you?”

“Grad school,” Galahad told him, and Mordred knew the university Galahad had to be attending, “So, about a year and a half now.”

“Fuck,” Mordred swore.

“I'd ask you to buy me a drink first, but you've already taken care of that,” Galahad's reply was a reflexive one. He covered his mouth, face flushed, “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” a small laugh escaped Mordred, the flippancy something entirely new to Galahad's affect, “I. Wow. I thought I was the only one.”

“I did, too,” Galahad let his shoulders relax a little. He reached back up to touch Mordred's face again, with only one hand this time, “It's really you.”

“I can't believe it,” Mordred let out a nervous laugh, “that I'm not the only one.”

Mordred reached out a hand and stopped short of Galahad's face, only making contact when Galahad nodded. Galahad's cheek was warm, just slightly flushed but so soft. Galahad tilted his face into Mordred's hand and kissed the spot where his palm met his wrist. Mordred shivered, an involuntary thing.

“Good?” Galahad asked.

“Very,” Mordred assured him.

“Good,” a statement this time. Galahad tilted his head to lean into Mordred's palm, leaving Mordred cupping his jaw more than his cheek. Mordred used the change in position to guide Galahad towards him. Galahad went without resistance, a small, easy smile playing across his face, reflecting in his eyes.

They wound up resting forehead to forehead, breathing deeply and coming near chest-to-chest as they let the moment settle in to their souls.

“Real,” Galahad whispered as he drew back for air.

“Very, very real,” Mordred hadn't realized he'd wrapped an arm around Galahad's waist.

They were, as they had been their first life, a study in contrasts, Mordred's sturdy frame and dark brown hair eclipsing Galahad's lithe build and hair so blonde is was almost white. Where Mordred moved in small increments, Galahad was able to flow as if unbound by the human form. Galahad's eyes were curious, searching, while Mordred's were far more guarded.

And yet, they both found themselves there, together, in awe of the sudden connection across time and space, their proximity an impossible thing, so much it seemed like a giant _fuck you_ to destiny itself that they should find each other before they found either of their fathers, before Mordred found his brothers, before Galahad found anyone connected to the grail. They stood in Mordred's foyer, two bastard children, unwanted by their own flesh and blood, but so, so welcomed by the other.

“Galahad,” Mordred said the other man's name like a prayer.

“Mordred,” Galahad said his name like a plea. He was so close that Mordred could feel the gentle exhale that came with it brush across his lips, “Mordred, you're crying.”

“Am I?” Mordred hadn't noticed. He did not want to take his hands off Galahad, the thought of a break in contact too daunting. Galahad lifted his own thumb to wipe a stray tear. “Ah. Overwhelmed, I guess?”

“For what it's worth,” Galahad leaned into Mordred a little more, “I'm not to far behind you in that.”

“Oh!” Mordred seemed to realize they were still in the foyer, “Come on, I have a couch and stuff. We can. Uh. We can sit.”

“Shoes on or off?” Galahad asked.

“Normally off but I don't care right now,” Mordred told him.

“I'm taking my shoes off then,” Galahad told him, “You live alone?”

“Unless you count the houseplants and the fish tank, yeah,” Mordred toes his own shoes off. Galahad needed to unzip the sides of his boots before he could kick them off. He followed Mordred into his makeshift dining-and-living room he'd carved out of the little space the apartment had to offer. Galahad grabbed both their coffees and handed Mordred his as they both sat down.

They sat on opposite ends of the couch, using the arm rests as back support, legs tangling in the middle. Mordred assumed his own face was an mirror of Galahad's – overwhelmed, ecstatic, eyes red but bright, the edges of his mouth quirked into a smile that seemed at home with the rest of his features.

“So, tell me about the plants and the fish tank,” Galahad was desperate to learn anything he could about the man across from him. Mordred laughed and Galahad bumped Mordred's knee with his own. “Please?” Galahad added for good measure.

“Fish tank's in the bedroom,” Mordred told him, “It's. It's a lot. Like, eighty gallon tank, currently about thirty animals – small and slightly less small fish, some snails, lots of plants and hides.”

“What made you go for fish?” Galahad asked, starting to take in the sheer volume of plants stashed around the living area.

“I'm not home enough for anything that requires human interaction,” Mordred shrugged, “and with my luck I'd adopt the most aloof cat available and get it home and discover it was just acting out because it was in a tiny metal cage and actually needs twenty-four-seven affection or it screams.”

“I live with, like, four or seven other people, I'm not even sure,” Galahad shook his head.

“What?” Mordred's eyes went wide.

“It's only supposed to be three,” Galahad's smile faltered for a moment, “but you know. College.”

“Well, if you ever need a place for some quiet,” Mordred looked around, “most noise around here's the fish tank. And sometimes the upstairs neighbors.”

“I will absolutely be taking you up on that,” Galahad told him, his smile returning even brighter, “So, the plants.”

“Oh, yeah,” Mordred chuckled, “I actually had most of these at my last place, too. Kind of developed a botany hobby at the tail end of A-levels to keep myself occupied during exams and never stopped.”

“At least it's a productive hobby?” Galahad asked.

“Eh,” Mordred shrugged, “turns out I have anxiety and depression and the plants were a coping skill.”

“A beautiful coping skill,” Galahad countered, “but yeah, I feel that.”

“You, too?” Mordred asked. Galahad nodded, “I can't tell if it's a this-life thing or residual from the first time or both.”

“I've thought both,” Galahad told him, “For me, anyways. Like, the first time was nothing but talk of destiny and purity and everything about my life was so controlled it felt like I was living someone else's life and just got to watch from incredibly close-up.”

“And it didn't help that the court was already so well-established by the time I showed up,” Mordred emphasized, “Like, if there was anything I _could have done_ to change how fucked up everything was – and I never figured out if it had always been like that or if something changed or what.”

“Yes!” Galahad was relieved to know he wasn't the only one who had noticed that, “Like, the way things were, the horrors and pain and outright abuse were a part of the very fabric of Camelot and the only way to have remedied that would have been to just burn it down.”

“Well, good news there,” Mordred cleared his throat, “is that's what I wound up doing, in the end.”

“Fuck,” Galahad nearly dropped his coffee, “That's.”

“It was awful,” Mordred's shoulders slumped forward, “It needed to be done, but it was still. Awful.”

“I wish I'd've been there to see it,” Galahad set is coffee on the floor as carefully as he could before managing to position himself such that he was on all fours and facing Mordred, “All I got out of the bullshit was a fucking cup.”

Mordred snorted a laugh and put his own coffee on the floor. Galahad took that to mean _come closer_ and flopped forward such that his head was on Mordred's chest and the rest of hiss body was sprawled out over the couch. Mordred put both of his arms around Galahad and squeezed without letting go again.

“It's nice,” Galahad nestled as close to Mordred as he could, “in its own fucked up way, knowing I wasn't the only one who thought everything was wrong the first time.”

“If lightening struck twice,” Mordred sighed, “it's sure to have struck a few more times.”

“Maybe it'll be better this time,” Galahad never really let go of hope, whether that was optimism or misguided faith in his compatriots he'd never bothered to parse out.

“Maybe,” Mordred tried to borrow some of that hope, “but for now, tell me about uni.”

“Oh,” Galahad smirked – Mordred could feel it against his chest – and told him: “Honestly, I have no idea what I want to do with myself and continuing college seemed like a good idea.”

“Hmn,” Mordred held Galahad a little tighter, “What are you studying?”

“Don't laugh,” Galahad looked up, bright green eyes reflecting the sun that filtered through the porch door. Mordred took as clear of a mental image as he could and saved it, Galahad's trust in him in that moment something he wanted to keep.

“I won't,” Mordred promised.

“Comparative theology,” Galahad told him. He paused, waiting for the laugh to come anyways. “Oh. Wow. You meant it.”

“I did,” Mordred told him, “Why would I laugh?”

“Just, you know,” Galahad sighed, “Sir Galahad the Pure and the Grail and religion.”

Mordred made a discontented sound and coaxed Galahad up a little further so that Galahad's face found itself in Mordred's neck.

“Do you enjoy it, though?” Mordred asked him.

“Kind of?” Galahad knew he wasn't putting much stock into enjoying life, “It keeps me busy and there's always something new to learn, something else to uncover,” he decided to change the subject, “What about you, what do you do for work?”

“QA,” Mordred told him, “I basically listen to other people's tech support calls and review them. Not at all exciting, but it pays well enough for this little box and the hours are stable.”

“Do you enjoy it, though?” Galahad used the same question.

“I do,” Mordred told him, “And, not that I am complaining in the least, but I never pegged you as being highly tactile.”

“Wasn't allowed to be,” Galahad told him, “I was an object for Camelot's legacy, not a person. Person-y things were off-limits.”

“Well,” Mordred was worried if he squeezed much harder he'd hurt the other man, “things are different, now.”

“I'm thankful,” Galahad let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, “I was so worried, if I wasn't alone, if I met someone who only knew me as the Grail Knight, it'd be the first time all over again and I really just want a chance to _live_.”

“Different details, same circumstances,” Mordred said, “I'm glad it's you.” Galahad sniffed and buried his face in Mordred's neck, the weight of such a simple statement unexpected.

“I feel like I'm being seen as a person for the first time,” Galahad said before Mordred could ask anything.

Mordred, unsure of how to follow that, pressed his cheek against the top of Galahad's head and made a brief humming sound, the vibrations rumbling through his chest. They stayed like that for a while, the silence becoming a comfortable thing.

If this _was_ the start of the return of Camelot, Mordred thought, maybe things could be different.

Maybe they **would** be different, if he and Galahad took charge instead of waited for their fathers to show up and subsequently get themselves together.


End file.
